“Where the hell are you?” she hissed. “You promised. They’re making cocktails, I’ve heard a 40 minute relationship breakup story and the demo thing is starting. Apparently she also does a side line in jewellery.”
“What ? Prince Edward or Micheal Hill?”
“Very funny. Just get here.”
Finishing a 12 hour shift and making what could be described as the world’s worst dinner, I really wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not trying to be mean… ‘ said the small person ‘but is this poisonous?” She’s not joking.
I get a text; ‘Hurry Up. I’m getting scared.” I go.
She makes me swear I won’t be immature or an absolute female cur -which was not the word she used. If she didn’t have good grounds for extracting that guarantee based on past form I may have worked up the energy to take offence.
Like many women I’ve found there are layers of energy deficit that can be reached which would make a Greek bank feel smug. You know when you’re heading there when you’d rather silently watch your child do something appalling than fire up to tell them off. Or when you agree to buy the boat/go into some random business/dive for lobster in Spain just so you don’t have to argue with your co-pilot in life. Those are the days when you wonder if perhaps your co-pilot was trained in pre-war Japan and also know how family violence happens.
Sitting at the back with M. I try to think mature ‘we’re all adults here’ thoughts.
Except today is the first Girl Child day to mark the millions of missing women in developing countries, a 14 year old girl has been shot in the head in Pakistan because she wanted to go to school and we’re all supposed to be celebrating 50 years of feminism.
The missing women could well refer to Northland’s political elite but that’s another story – maybe they’re all just too tired to run for power.
Meanwhile I’m trying not to be embarrassed and depressed that I’m sitting at the new millenium equivalent of the tupperware party; the ‘woman’s zone’ sex toy home-sell.
I ask M. if they do a line in lunchboxes or something for frozen slices while trying to maturely assess a range of dildos that are being passed round. I accidentally set one off that seems to have a purple rubber cockroach on it (I’m later informed it is a butterfly) and very immaturely scream and drop it.
Best to regroup over a rum punch with the smokers outside. Not because I smoke but because the conversation is better and because an instrument named ‘Kelvin’ is being passed around and now I’m feeling scared. Seriously. It could be multi-use – like if your 8 year old child lost a limb it could be a fit as a prosthetic or it could be used to kill home invaders.
M suggests I buy some pink fur handcuffs but I know the kamikaze co-pilot would just use them to tie me up so he can go and watch more soccer without me talking over the top of the commentary and wrecking it for him.
Sexy.
At the end of the working week about the sexiest thing I can fantasise is that the co:pilot will mow the lawns. Or (and bear with me here) that Murray McCully will give our entire aid budget to girls’ schools in Pakistan. Or even better; he sends a message of terror and destruction to the guys who shot that young girl in the head.
Send Kelvin. Works for me.